Pictures of Home
by P.N.Batgirl
Summary: A picture is worth a thousand words." A look at the events that shaped Mr. Frodo Baggins through a series of 1000 word short stories.[complete!]
1. Scene One Loss

* A/N – All ten chapters have been re-uploaded to correct word count. The one that will have changed most notably will be Chapter 7, which had previously been off by 60-some words. DISCLAIMER: The world of Middle Earth and all it's components are copyrighted information that isn't mine. Any direct quotations from the book have been documented.*  
  
Seeing Bag End as the villains had left it was almost more than Frodo could stand. The filth, the remnants the Big Folk had left behind, seemed to erase the Bag end of his memories. Frodo had been unable to help much in the clean up process, as the mere sight of what had formerly been his home almost always reduced him to tears. Even after the place had been fully restored and all of his old furniture had been moved back from Crickhollow, it did not feel like the home he had left. No doubt at least part of that was from the lingering memory of what had taken place there while they were away, and of what the travelers had felt as they first entered the place. The memory clung to everything, fouling the air like smell of foul smoke. But something else, something more fundamental plagued Frodo's mind. Something in the journey itself had reduced what had been a "home" to nothing but a tunnel into the side of a hill.  
  
He had somehow known this would happen. Even in what he considered is wildest fantasies, when he allowed himself the hope that he may live through the mission, he knew he would truly never return "home." Home had died even before he set foot from the Shire and entered the Old Forest. It had died when he had first heard the unearthly scream of the first Black Rider.  
  
Frodo's sense of what was "home" had always been a fragile thing. He had lost his first home at Brandy Hall when his parents had died. Slowly he had learned to think of Bag End as a home, but it hadn't been easy. He had been quite sure that Bilbo leaving would have been the end of it, but strangely enough he had held on. It seemed the connection he had with his younger friends was enough to keep the place alive. Then there was the journey, and the complete, chaotic rearrangement of his soul. There was no way that the things that had formerly brought him happiness would have the power to pierce the constant gloomy shadow over his heart.  
  
He now sat quietly in front of his favorite fireplace, in his favorite chair, smoking from his favorite pipe, and felt no joy. The red glow of the flames highlighted his young yet melancholy features. His curly mop of hair was still dark brown, framing his pale, squared face. His perfectly shaped nose and soft, pink lips sat on milky, smooth skin, free from any of the lines other hobbits his age (and some younger than him) had. His eyes, though, showed him to be much older. They showed a depth some never got, like two sapphires that sat in the core of the earth for ages, watching since the beginning of time.  
  
Frodo shifted further into his chair, gazing intently into the fire. Then suddenly, like it always did now, the red flames brought him back to a place he wished he would never see again, or wished he had never seen at all. The fires of Mount Doom. The final downfall of his soul began replaying itself in his head.  
  
The ring had taken him. It had taken one moment, one thought, and after seventeen plus years of resisting it, he was no longer Frodo Baggins of Bag End. The ring had finally found his weakness and exploited it. Like everything else it touched it had now corrupted this. It had offered him a way to get home, to his beloved Bag End, alive and whole. That had been the one longing thought that had kept him from breaking over the year long, hell filled journey.  
  
Think of it ... it had whispered seductively in his mind. Your triumphant return to the Shire, to Bag End, waiting just as you left it. There is no way you will be able to make it back alone... let me help. Let me be your crutch... It was his biggest moment of weakness. It had been then that he claimed, no, was claimed, by the One Ring. And in that moment he believed he would get home, and the entire world would love him... love him and fear him. Then the façade of the ring was broken again, but it was too late. He was now it's slave. It was at that time that Sam finally appeared, that moment too late. The feeling that he had just betrayed everything and everyone he cared about struck him hard at the sight of Sam's dear face, that had become the symbol of everything he was doing this for. The look in his eyes was that of pure torture as Frodo heard his own voice saying, "... I do not choose now to do what I came to do..." (Return of the King, p. 924 paperback) His mind screamed in protest. He DID want to do it. With every bit of strength in his tortured soul he wanted to see that golden talisman of evil melted to nothing.  
  
Then Gollum had come, and it had happened, like a prayer answered by sheer force of will, and the fundamental truth that he was right, he was just. It had cost him a finger, but what was a finger in the grand scheme of things?  
  
The sun had started to fade a few hours ago. Now a dark blue light, the last for the day, hung over the Shire. The interior of Bag End shone brightly, for Frodo had lit every candle and fireplace in the hole. While the fires served to keep him warm, it was mostly to permeate the shadowy haze that had been forming over his eyes the last few days. March would never be a good month again, another side effect of his journey, but at least he was back in the shire, back...home? No, no home it was not. Residence it would be until his book was complete, but home it would never be again.. 


	2. Scene Two Frodo's Monster

It wasn't true. His parents were fine, they had to be. Frodo was only twelve; they wouldn't have left him alone. They wouldn't. It was all a big joke, some odd punishment for his sneaking off after supper. The sobbing and startlingly realistic grief would cease, and his parents would walk through the front door. Then all of Brandy Hall would laugh at his foolishness for believing even for a second that his parents were dead.  
"Silly young lad," they would say. "Of course we're okay. We'd never leave you, you know that. The whole thing was your cousin's idea, really..." Frodo would laugh along, ignoring the cruelty of the joke itself for the sheer joy of having his parents, of not being alone.  
And without his parents with him, he would definitely be alone. Oh, sure, he would be among hundreds of relatives on a daily basis, but who would honestly find the time for little Frodo in all the chaos? He didn't exactly spend much time with friends his own age, so most of his interactions were between he and his parents. His parents knew this, he reasoned, so of course they would never be so careless as to die. They were fine.  
His Brandybuck relatives were far better actors than he would have otherwise credited them with. Their grief looked so real he had a hard time seeing through it at all. The tears staining their cheeks and reddening their eyes looked genuine, so much so that Frodo had almost fallen for this joke of theirs. Then reality struck him like a misguided bolt of lightning. They thought they could out-prank him, Frodo Baggins, most infamous prankster in the history of Brandy Hall, maybe even the Shire itself. Well, they would have to try much harder than this.  
Well, here came his Aunt Asphodel, to offer condolences. Ha. Probably trying to get one up on him for that salt incident. He'd show her.  
"Oh Frodo, you poor little thing!" she cried, smothering him in her arms. "Oh, what a horrible thing to happen!  
"Mmmph!" Frodo tried his best to speak, but was thoroughly blanketed in his Aunts hug. It was quite a while before she finally let him go enough for him to speak (and breathe). He looked up at her defiantly, cold blue eyes boring into her soft, saddened brown ones.  
"You haven't fooled me, you know," he said in a cold voice, a voice that seemed out of place on his delicate young face.  
"Fooled you? What do you mean?" Aunt Asphodel asked with a sniffle.  
"When are my parents coming back?" Frodo asked, continuing to stare at his aunt angrily. Her eyes widened, and choked on another sob.  
"Frodo, I am sorry dear, but they are not coming back. I know this is hard for you, but-"  
"NO!" Frodo yelled. "You're lying! I know they aren't dead!! They wouldn't die and leave me here! They wouldn't!!" Angry tears started to trail down his flushed face. Why did she continue to lie to him? He had guessed their game, now they should stop playing at it.  
"Frodo, please, stop. This is not funny. We are not lying to you. We wouldn't lie about such a thing! Please, please, stop this," his Aunt pleaded. Frodo looked at his aunt, then around the room of grieving relatives, and finally allowed reality into his mind. His parents were gone. They were not coming back. He would not see them again after a day of insect hunting with friends, never hear his mother's gentle scoldings, or his father's deep, soul lifting laughter as his son told him the story of his latest adventure. His parents had been the kindest of people, letting Frodo explore life for himself, giving him the perfect mix of discipline and freedom to become his own hobbit. Now they were gone, and he would never know that freedom again.  
That was the least of his losses. He loved his parents for so much more than that. Unlike other children his age, he idolized his parents, believing they were the best people possible to be like (with the possible exception of his uncle, Bilbo). He loved them deeply, and knew it, which was rare for the selfish days of childhood. This made the pain all the greater.  
It wasn't fair! He wasn't an exceptionally bad child, really. Why was he being punished? Frodo couldn't think of any reason there was for him to have to feel this way. He felt angry, like a fire in his stomach; and sadness, like someone pushing down on his chest so he couldn't breathe. He wanted to curl up in a dark place, as far away from anyone as he could get, and cry until he could breathe again.  
The Hall was suffocating him. There wasn't enough air in the gigantic house for all of the sobbing relatives. Frodo ran from the house, towards the river. He ran at full speed until he reached it's muddy banks, then collapsed. Through his blurry eyes, the world was distorted and watery, like he was swimming in the river himself, swimming for too long, drowning like his parents. This burning in his chest that felt like a lack of air, they felt this too. They died like this. The tearing sobs were splitting Frodo in two. They split him from his carefree childhood, setting it on a shelf high above his head. He lay on the ground next to the monster that took his parents, listening to it's mocking laughter. It was killing him, too. Only his suffering would last so much longer. Could he recover? Could he continue to be Frodo Baggins?  
He would have to. He was Frodo, son of Drogo and Primula Baggins, and that was who he would continue to be. He wouldn't let the monster kill him. He would hurt, he would mourn, but he would not lose. He would grow up, and he would defeat the monster. 


	3. Scene Three Ghost of Brandy Hall

Frodo and Merry ran out into the pouring rain, howling with laughter. Water streaked down Merry's face in visible rivers, washing away streaks of the flour that coated his entire body. But after three days locked up due to rain, and the threat of impending punishment within, Merry welcomed any kind of weather, as long as it was outdoors. They finally collapsed into one of the muddy gardens, just missing a puddle that was starting to resemble the Brandywine in size. "Well," Frodo laughed," with any luck, Brandy Hall has a new ghost to haunt its wings. I believe your story may live out my own"  
Merry beamed proudly at his cousin. This had, after all the first expedition of his very own plan. He was the one who decided to raid the pantries. True, he hadn't known that the unreadable bag he had grabbed contained flour, and not some secret treat of such magnitude that it had to be kept a secret, but really that was an honest mistake. And, as it turns out, one that left many options open for the rest of the day.  
For while Merry was kicking the bag, and generally being angry about his bad luck (the bag had been such a hassle, and turned out to be nothing!), Frodo had disappeared, and returned with as many handkerchiefs as he could find. While Merry watched in utter fascination, Frodo dipped one of the handkerchiefs into the flour, and tied a small amount in. He continued to do this with all the other handkerchiefs he had piled next to the bag, until Merry's curiosity finally burst.  
"What are those for?" he asked. Frodo smiled, and threw one of the flour balls at him. It imploded as it contacted Merry's shirt, leaving a large, white mark on his front. This demonstration was enough of an explanation for Merry, as young boys and messy substances rarely need much acquaintance to become fast friends.  
"So, who do you propose we use our new weapons on?" Frodo asked, as Merry picked up his share of the flour bombs excitedly.  
"I suppose we could wait on one of the stairs and catch people going in and out of the cellar." Frodo shook his head. "Far too difficult, trust me. There's no proper place to hide around there."  
"Well... what about the rafters of the stables?"  
"There's no one in the stables. Besides, the whole point is to stay indoors, remember?"  
Merry sighed. "Well, then I can only think of one other thing." So saying he hurled one of the flour bombs at Frodo's head. "Take that, you filthy troll!" he screamed, then ducked to find a hiding place behind one of the chairs in the sitting room they had found themselves in.  
Frodo chuckled. "Oh, so that is how we're playing. Very well..." and he adopted his most troll like position, gave a terrific roar, and pelted Merry with another flour bomb.  
The boys continued with their game for a long while, occasionally calling truces to fill up their handkerchiefs with flour. Finally they reached the bottom of the bag, and were again searching for entertainment. This time they decided on a grand quest around the Hall, or the newly dubbed "Brandywine Mountains". Being, of course, big fans of Bilbo's tales, both boys were of the firm conviction that a good adventure would invariably have mountains in it. So that was how it happened that somewhere around the Pass of Musty Old Things (Merry was quite fond of his naming skills), Frodo pulled his companion down among some boulders. Other travelers seemed to be passing by, and there were no guarantees that they were of the friendly variety. They could barely make out the odd tongue and foreign accent, but it sounded strangely like Merry's mother calling him for luncheon.  
"Well, my friend," Frodo said in a stage hero voice, making Merry giggle. "Methinks it time to venture home. What say you?"  
"Methinks what youthinks, cousin." This sent Frodo to the floor laughing.  
"Well then, let us return home, and you can change out of your war stained clothing." Merry seemed to take the worst of the Great Flour War. While Frodo sported the occasional white patch, Merry was covered, head to toe, in the sticky powder. He got up off the floor of the storage closet they had hidden in. But as he did so, two things happened. A bright flash of green tinged lightning lit the room, and the door to the closet opened. There stood his mother, looking terrified. Her mouth began to move, but no sound came out. "Mother?" Merry said. "What's wrong?" Finally, a loud shriek pierced the room, and Esmeralda ran down the corridor.  
Without even a word to each other, the two curious young hobbits followed Merry's distraught mother back to the rooms she and her family stayed in, where she started pounding on the door.  
"Esmerelda, what's wrong?" Saradoc asked his shaking, near-tears wife.  
"I – I –"she choked. ""I was looking for Merry... I had checked everywhere. I finally checked the –the Old storage closet."  
Merry gasped. He hadn't realized that was the closet he and Frodo had been exploring. Everyone knew to avoid that closet at all costs. It was said to be haunted. In fact, no one but troublesome children had set foot into that closet in over a generation, for it was said to be cursed, that whatever you saw within was the truth.  
"Now, dear, you know all those rumors about that place aren't true-" Saradoc started, with an odd smile on his lips.  
"But they are!! For when I looked in I saw..." she stopped and sobbed hard. "I saw our little Merry. Only he was white. Pure white like a ghost!"  
Seradoc said nothing for a moment, then held up a very incriminating piece of evidence: an empty sack of flour.  
Another unspoken agreement was met between the cousins, and they bolted from the Hall. 


	4. Scene Four The Ride to Hobbiton

The entire wagon ride to Hobbiton was wrapped in a hazy fog, both in reality and Frodo's own mind. The mists were so thick Frodo could barely see his own hand if he reached his arm to full length. He could feel it against his skin pressing down like a wet towel. A damp, earthy smell filled the air around him. The lulling sounds of hoofbeats and Merry's heavy breathing had an over all numbing effect, making his mind wander from where he was going (he couldn't believe he would have a home with Uncle Bilbo!), to the small amount of scenery he could see as they passed by it.  
  
The seven year old Merry, who now had his curly, golden brown head pillowed on Frodo's shoulder, had insisted on coming to say goodbye to his favorite cousin. He had put up quite a fuss, denying that it was too long a trip for him, and promising up and down that he would behave perfectly. He was quite true to his word, as he had had fallen asleep almost instantly, so was involuntarily not causing any trouble. Frodo shifted slightly, and Merry groaned in his sleep.  
"No, not the red one..." he muttered suddenly, flinching slightly at the thought of 'the red one', "...green... I hate the red one..." He shifted around for a moment or two more, before resettling.  
Frodo smiled at the sleeping little nuisance. If there was anything he would miss more than passingly in his move to Bag End, it would be his little playmate. The latter of his memories at Brandy Hall were bland at the very least, and sometimes achingly lonely. Not that any of his relatives had tried advertantly to make him feel unwelcome. The honest truth was just that life at Brandy Hall could be exceedingly lonely if one wasn't an overly social creature. This Frodo had never been, so most of his early playmates were children of his parents' friends. Even after their deaths he hadn't changed in his willingness to seek out his own playmates, and therefore had a lot of friends in print, but not made of flesh. It hadn't taken him long to be labeled as a loner of sorts, someone who did not want to be bothered.  
That label hadn't stopped young Merry. He was only two or three the first time he started trailing after his much older cousin. On that first day Frodo hadn't even realized the small boy was following him until he got at least a mile from the Hall. Neither, apparently, had Merry's mother. Frodo, of all people, got punished severely for not telling her ahead of time that he and Merry were together. Despite that, the two of them had found a lot more fun things to do together than apart. From then on Frodo was something between Merry's caretaker, best friend, and role model.  
So no one was really shocked when Merry turned out to be quite a hell- raiser, even at his young age. Here he was, not even ten, and already his reputation was known all through Buckland, and anywhere else he may have had relatives. Of course, most of the ideas were credited (correctly) to the older of the partners in crime, but it was the smaller of the two who carried them out, so he earned his rightful share of infamy. Many of the residents of Brandy Hall were at least somewhat glad for the seperation of the two terrors, feeling much more safe. Some were less contented with it, though. Despite the menace the two casued, quite a few of the hobbits looked lovingly at the little rascals' pranks. They were just a tweenager and a little one after all.  
One of the wagon wheels landed hard in a deep rut, jarring the passengers somewhat violently. Merry woke with a start, looking around in confusion. "We there yet?" he asked in a just barely coherent slur.  
"Not quite," Frodo answered. "We still have about an hour's ride ahead of us."  
"Good." Merry moved his head back to Frodo's shoulder, but did not fall asleep. "Frodo?" he asked tentatively.  
"Yes?"  
"When you live in Bag End and make all your new friends, will you still play with me?" The young boy's usually confident, playful voice sounded very lonely and isolated suddenly. He turned his head to look seriously at Frodo, a look that seemed very out of place on his young, always smiling face.  
"Yes, of course I will Merry." Frodo had been expecting the question, but it still made him hurt for his young friend. He knew Merry wouldn't understand about the whole thing, but he had tried to think of a way to explain it to him. "We won't see each other as much, of course, but I have a feeling we will be friends for a very long time."  
"You aren't sick of me?" the child asked, a bit more spiritedly this time.  
"Now why would I be sick of you?" Frodo wondered out loud. True, Merry could be a nuisance, but he was also a very close friend.  
"Because you are a tweenager now and I'm still a little kid. No other tweenager likes playing with us kids, they say we're imma- imma-"  
"Immature?" Merry nodded as Frodo pronounced the word he was thinking of. "Well that would be rather unfair of me. I'm really not that much more mature than you." Okay, it was a bit of a stretch, but in a way it was true.  
"I guess.... Does that mean you still wanna be my friend?" Merry asked again. Frodo smiled and squeezed his cousin's shoudler gently.  
"Of course I still want to be your friend, you little nuisance. And just think of all the marvelous adventures we can go on in Hobbiton. You haven't seen much of it at all. We could do a lot of new things here." Merry nodded enthusiastically, much to Frodo's relief. They were still friends. 


	5. Scene Five Self Image

Frodo sighed and rubbed his eyes. From the other room he could hear Sam reciting a poem, Bilbo's voice piping up when he stumbled. Frodo had been practicing his elvish handwriting for over an hour. He had thought learning to speak the language was a pain, but was quickly learning that writing it was twice as bad. Bilbo had him transcribing poems, writing them in Westron with the Quenya alphabet for now. Halfway through the eighth poem, he got sidetracked and started writing something else.  
  
Oh! The sun, Lighting the afternoon sky But where am I? Stuck in this prison of words How I ache To feel the cool breeze blow by To go and fly Over summer grasses green.  
  
Frodo was musing over the next line when the door opened. "Tis time for tea Frodo. Go out and wait in the kitchen, I'd like to go over your work so far before I join you," Bilbo said so quickly it was nearly incomprehensible. "What have you got there? That rhyme scheme doesn't seem to fit any of the poems I gave you." Before Frodo could stop him, Bilbo had taken and begun to read his half-written poem. "Well... a bit melodramatic, don't you think?" he questioned with a raised eyebrow and quirky grin. "But a good start nonetheless. Perhaps after tea you can finish it outside?"  
"Yes Bilbo," Frodo said quietly. He scooted past him quickly trying to hide his red cheeks.  
Bilbo chuckled as he watched his young nephew leave the room. He was a determined one, if nothing else. While it was a valuable trait, it also seemed to cause a lot of needless suffering. He shook his head and went back to the kitchen.  
Frodo was already waiting patiently at the table, practicing his non- verbal communication on Sam. Finally he sighed and gave up. "Would you please sit down? I think it will be easier to serve you tea if you aren't hovering in the corner," he said, his voice a perfect blend of invitation and friendly sarcasm. Sam blushed and joined him, sitting down on the opposite side of the table. "So, how go your studies today, Samwise?"  
Frodo looked expectantly at Sam, who looked like he was being interrogated. "Er... they're going well, sir," he finally stuttered.  
"Indeed," Bilbo added, finally entering the kitchen. "He is learning very quickly. Perhaps after tea both of you can complete your lessons outdoors?" Bilbo had been watching Frodo try to break Sam's protective shell over the last few months he had been learning his letters, and approved of his efforts highly. 'He is only a boy after all. They both are. There is no need for either to be so serious.'  
"Yes, Uncle Bible. We could go under the big tree. There are a few benches there, and it's level enough for me to write," Frodo agreed readily. Sam looked quite a bit more nervous, but agreed with a quiet nod.  
"Wonderful! Well then. Let's have that tea!"  
  
* * * * *  
  
So Frodo found himself outside, rewriting poetry while listening to, and occasionally correcting, Sam's reading. He smiled happily, as the sun warmed his cheeks. After quite a while, he had finally finished all of his poetry work, and was left to listen to Sam. The other boy seemed highly nervous, now that he had Frodo's complete attention.  
"'His sword was long, his lance was keen His shining helm afar was seen The countless stars of heaven's field Were mirrored in his silver shield But long ago he rode away,  
And where he – dway- dwaylett...'"(Fellowship, p. 197-8, hardcover*)  
"It's pronounced 'dwelleth'," Frodo corrected as gently as he could manage. He waited patiently for Sam to continue, but there was no sound coming from his "student". Sam was looking at the parchment containing the scrawled poem, looking defeated. "What's wrong?" he asked, moving closer to the younger hobbit.  
"It just comes so easy to everyone else..." Sam muttered, looking down at his furry feet despondently. He looked again at the scratchily written poem, and laid the paper down on the grass. "Seems like I'm the only dunce that can't learn this."  
"What, you mean letters and writing?" Frodo questioned. Sam nodded. "Not as easily as you think. I've been learning since I was your age, and I can assure you I stumbled on just as many words as you, maybe more. You are lucky. You have Bilbo nearby. Makes it less of a chore when you are learning to read off of poetry books, as opposed to family histories." Frodo shuddered involuntarily at the memory, and wondered if he'd really needed to know THAT much about the Brandybucks.  
"You don't mean that, Mr. Frodo." Sam looked skeptically at Frodo. Frodo held up his hands and nodded solemnly  
"I assure you, I do. And there is no reason you will not do just as well. Besides, there are not that many others in the Shire who know how to read and write. Just learning at all puts you paces beyond everyone else. Let alone the poetry. Aside from you, Bilbo and I, I am almost positive no hobbit appreciates poetry. So how can you say you are the only one who doesn't understand?" Sam shifted slightly, and blushed.  
"Well... it's just... I always study with you. A-and you're so much better than I. I just thought that- that it meant I wasn't learning it proper," he stuttered.  
Frodo laughed. "Oh Sam, if you go through life comparing yourself to everyone else, and never noticing what you can do, you'll never appreciate anything properly." Sam thought this over, then smiled at Frodo. "So, does this mean you'll actually talk to me, and not blush as much now? It's always been a bit off putting, trying to hold a conversation with a hobbit shaped, red painted wall."  
Sam blushed. "I guess I'll do my best, Mr. Frodo. But talk about what?"  
"Anything. What interests you, my friend?"  
"...c-could you tell me about Elves?" 


	6. Scene Six Hero Worship

Frodo slowed his stride even more, checking behind him to make sure both of the younger hobbits were keeping up. Merry caught his eyes, and quickly ran up to meet him.  
"How come we gotta baby-sit him all day?" he asked, glaring back at Pippin, who was trying valiantly to keep up, despite his much smaller legs. "We can't do anything with the baby with us..." He sighed in frustration.  
Frodo smiled, and chose not to point out the irony of Merry's statement. "Don't worry, there's plenty we can still do."  
Merry snorted. "Yeah, like what? We can't play any good games, he's too little and couldn't catch anyway. We can't go anywhere near the river, or Aunt Eglatine would kill us. We can't do anything really fun, because he can't run fast enough. Today's gonna be really boring and it's all his fault!"  
Merry gave Frodo a look, pleading for a good activity for the day. "Well... we could always... Pippin, what are you doing?" Frodo asked, as the youngest lad started slipping purposefully down the steep hill leading to the Brandywine River.  
"Bear falled. See?" he said, pointing at a scraggly bush that had stopped the bear's roll near the bottom of the hill.  
"Why did he even bring that silly bear with him?" Merry asked impatiently, watching as Pippin continued to slide feet first, mud leaving long streaks on the back of his shirt. "It was going to get in the way no matter what we did."  
"I'm sure he wasn't thinking about that," Frodo said with a wince. "I think I'm going to be killed for all the stains he's collecting. Pippin! Why don't you wait for me! I'll get your bear for you."  
The younger lad shook his head. "Nuh-uh... I mean, no thank you, Cousin Frodo. I can get it myself," he said, continuing to slide down the hill. Halfway down, he had stopped pushing with his feet, allowing gravity to move for him.  
"Should he really get that close to the bank?" Merry asked, seeing Pippin slowly losing control of his slide, speeding faster and faster towards the edge of the river. In fact, he had passed the bush several feet ago, the bear coming loose and not slowing him in the slightest. Pippin whimpered loudly as he realized he was in trouble. He had broken out of the more plant filled hill, and onto the main bank of the river. Frodo was off after him like an arrow, racing down the hill as if it were flat land. Merry followed behind, a bit more slowly, being sure to keep his footing. Frodo had covered nearly the full length of the hill within a few seconds. It seemed that he was going to catch him in time, but as Frodo reached out to grab him, Pippin fell into the water.  
Fortunately, he was hauled out of the water before he even had time to submerge. Unfortunately, that was all the time it took for him to lose his grip on the bear. There it was, bobbing in the current of the river, being carried swiftly away. "Save him!" the distraught young Pippin cried. He reached out his arms as far as they would go, trying his hardest to save his beloved friend. Without any more thought and only the barest hint of a sigh, Frodo leapt into the water. Both young lads held their breaths, and their hearts seemed to stop until they saw their cousin's face splutter to the surface. Pippin stared after Frodo, amazed at his cousin's bravery in the face of such a perilous enemy. "What's he doing?" he whispered breathlessly, his voice just barely audible over the swirling water. "He's saving your bear. Don't ask stupid questions," Merry said, all of his attention on Frodo. Pippin moved closer to Merry, eyes wide with fear. "He's not going under the water!" he said, voice getting shrill with nervousness. "Why isn't he going under the water?" Pippin watched, his features frozen in a mixture of fear and awe. "He's swimming," Merry explained. Seeing the look on Pippin's face, he continued. "A lot of us that live at the Hall learn to. Frodo learned when he was younger." "Why?" "Because of something that happened when he was little. Nobody really talks about it," Merry answered, not really feeling right trying to explain what happened to Frodo's parents; he hardly knew himself. He only knew it was the reason Frodo had never allowed himself to be afraid of water. Pippin looked up at Merry, and even at such a young age recognized the facial expression: he wasn't going to get any more out of Merry, at least until Frodo was back on dry land.  
A hand came up, depositing a soggy lump of brown fabric on the shore. "BEAR!" Pippin screamed, throwing himself at the dripping bear, squeezing it to his chest. Water poured from it like a wrung dishrag, spilling all over him. Any questions that may have remained were displaced instantly.  
"I think I have a name for your bear, Pip," Frodo said breathlessly, with a sideways grin. "'Brandywine' seems a rather fitting name, don't you think?"  
"I think that's a bit too long, Frodo," Merry said, as Pippin stumbled on the word. "'Brandy' will have to do for now."  
"Brandy!" Pippin said happily, hugging the bear even harder to his chest, soaking himself with even more river water. He looked up briefly, the latched on to Frodo's leg. "Thank you, Frodo! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"  
"Not a problem, Pippin. Just... stay away from water until we've taught you how to swim, okay?" Pippin nodded, eyes never leaving Frodo. "I think we should head home now." Merry and Pippin nodded their heads, nearly taking the lead.  
Not even four steps into their trek, Pippin fell back, and held out his arms to Frodo. His older cousin picked him up, and Pippin rode home in the arms of his hero. 


	7. Scene Seven Sitting on the Fence

Fredegar Bolger smiled from his perch on the field's fenced border, watching his three playmates and cousins tackle each other into the enormous leaf piles they had accumulated. Raking up had started as a punishment for this very act, which made him wonder about the state of mind of whatever adult had given them this task in the first place. What kind of an adult would prescribe this as punishment, when they had to know this would happen?  
"Come on, Fatty!" little Pippin called, muffled voice emanating from somewhere deep within the burgundy and chocolate pile. "There are plenty of leaves here!" he screamed, and began laughing again as Merry rubbed some of the more crumbly leaves vigorously on his head, leaving brown bits and pieces to stick in his curls. The boys were trying to shake the leaves off of themselves as fast as they accumulated, occasionally spitting out a mouthful of the yellow and orange irritants  
"That is quite all right!" Fredegar called back, trying to keep the mild distaste from his voice. While he did enjoy time spent with his three companions, he was never one for rough, dirty play, which this was fast becoming. The pile migrated closer and closer to a wet patch of sunken land, that would probably swallow a foot up to the ankle.  
He sighed, wishing not for the first time that he were more like his cousins. He always felt like he was left sitting on the fence, away from what they were doing. They were his friends, the closest he had. He would do anything for them, had often taken their punishments right along with them, without partaking in any of the incriminating fun. It had never come to a test, but he felt he would do nearly anything for these cousins and friends that seemed to be able to shelf him so easily. Was the feeling returned?  
Fredegar often questioned that. He knew the group dynamics well enough. Frodo was the leader, and neither Merry nor Pippin would dare question him. He loved Merry as a friend or brother, or maybe some mixture of the two that was more, as the boy had been something of a savior to this eldest cousin. He loved Pippin as well, but differently. He accepted the lad's youth, and penchant to learn by numerous mistakes, as part of his growing process, and seemed to be waiting patiently to see what the adult version of the irresponsible boy would be.  
Merry was the middle ground for the younger and older, something they had in common, and a reason for the otherwise very different hobbits to be a group. He worshipped Frodo, and sometimes, even now, tried so hard to emulate him it was almost funny to watch. He tried to be to Pippin what Frodo was to him, someone to show him the world and teach him, but play and do fun things as well.  
And Pippin, the youngest of the group, was its vibrancy. He was the excuse the older two needed to be the immature lads they still were. He set the tempo for all of the groups activities. He looked up to Merry with awe, not slightly due to Merry's initial, rather ambivalent reaction to the lad. Merry was his first experience where he had to try to get his attention, and it had sealed him as Pippin's favorite. Frodo was obviously looked on as the disciplinarian, but not the adult. While an adult would tell Pippin to do things, no questions asked, as soon as possible, Frodo would take the time to explain why they needed to go in for the night, or why it was important for Pippin to wash up before dinner. And that was all the ever curious littlest hobbit wanted.  
But where did that leave Fatty in the equation? Sitting on the fence, apparently. He recorded their events, and watched. He would run to get help when it was needed. Sometimes he wondered if the others noticed him at times, immersed in this joke or that, that while he had been there, he always felt separated from. At times it seemed so unfair that he was always overlooked, but then he would remind himself that all he ever had to do was go join in. Surely they would allow it. He was after all, the last member of the group. If he was not they would surely have stopped inviting him, would they not?  
Was that his role, then? When the others sized him up, what words came to mind? Bordering between the rat, who would tell just HOW Pippin had scraped his knee, and the loyal friend, who would play dumb with the rest. The quiet one, the one whose shell was to be broken, to see if he were rotten or not. "Then by all means, break my shell," he said quietly to himself. He focused his attention back on the group, and how fun it really looked to be immersed in leaves, struggling to breathe through over exertion and spirited laughing. It had to be wroth it to get a touch messy, compared to sitting on a knotted old wooden fence and waiting to go inside, to look forward to the same tomorrow.  
His thinking finally ended, Fredegar jumped down from the fence, dusted himself off lightly, and strode purposefully toward the leaf pile. He grabbed as big a handful of leaves as his somewhat small hands could take, and roughly crowned Frodo's dark curls with them. He stood back, with a falsely smug grin painted on his face at the oldest hobbit's stunned reaction, inwardly cursing his decision. He had been wrong, they had been fine with him being an outsider, and didn't want him to join them. He continued to curse his decision mentally, until Frodo's smile widened to nearly cracking. The melee continued, now with all four members shrieking with laughter and the shock of rough leaves on their skin. 


	8. Scene Eight Rivendell

Frodo walked cautiously into the dim room, following the tracks his own feet had left nearly a year ago. 'Has it only been such a short time?' he wondered, sitting on the same small ledge, in front of the same small window. Rivendell was the perfect place for any mod, and any pastime, as Bilbo had reported in more detail before, even silent contemplation, as Frodo was doing now. He sat quietly, staring out of the small window onto the gorgeous valley below, and remembered the hobbit that had been sitting at this exact spot all those months that should have been years ago.  
He had thought he was as weary as one hobbit could be. He had thought he had faced so much already, that he was through with his journeys. He had thought he was going home...  
  
**  
  
Home. Finally, after all this time, he would go back to the Shire. His foothold. The one place in the world he knew would be safe and familiar. The journey had been long, and hard. He had not been prepared for what he had faced; evils beyond even his imaginings. But this was it. After the council later today, the Ring of Power would be in the hands of another, and he would no longer be Ringbearer. He would just be Frodo Baggins, of the Shire, free to go home and carry on with his life. Maybe not exactly the same, he thought, looking at the wound in his shoulder. They may not have told him as much, but he could guess that the wound was not ordinary, and would probably never leave him be. It would be a painful reminder of the evils of the world, something that would remind him, when life of the Shire seemed to boring and frivolous, that there were worse things in the world than simple seeming folk who did not imagine as much as they should.  
He sneezed, as the dust from he had stirred in the long abandoned room began to condense, and winced at the twinge in his shoulder. That nothing worse came from his journey was a blessing. He was very well aware of the fact that he nearly died. Less than twenty-four hours away from the all-encompassing darkness he had fallen into left it fresh in his memory. Even the paint hat was still in his shoulder was better than that, than the loss of all feeling, than the disconnected feeling that was his last memory before darkness.  
The small view of Rivendell the window gave him was no less beautiful for it's size. He was glad that this was where his journey came to an end. It at least made the journey somewhat worth the hardships, this beautiful land, and the knowledge that the keepers of this place were the best people to put in charge of the ring. Surely they had chosen a wise Elven warrior, or a trusted elf-friend, as the new Ringbearer. No longer would the duty fall to those without proper experience. Yes, it was definitely time to go home.  
  
* *  
  
He frowned at the memories that stirred, drifting with the freshly disturbed dust. If only he had been right all those months ago. If only that had been the end of his journey, he may have been able to bear it. But now... Now he stared out of the small window, and just wished he were home. In Bag-End where he could spend the rest of his days until... until his time came. He just wanted to be back in a comfortable, well remembered place. Quiet footsteps broke his reverie, and he looked up to see Merry examining him, and the room. "Leave it to you, cousin, to find the one room in this place no one has dusted in years. How can yous tand to be in this room? It is so... grey." "Bleak colors for a bleak mood," Frodo responded truthfully. He would not even bother lying to Merry. No response came for quite a while. "This room must have been for storage," Merry finally commented idly. "Oh? What makes you say that?" Frodo asked.  
"Haven't you noticed? The ceilings are far too low for this to really be usable by the elves... they must have stored things in here at some point."  
Frodo looked up, and only then noticed the ceilings were five and a half, maybe six feet tall at the highest. "Must have been what draws me to the palce. It's comforting in a way..." he mused.  
"Although the ceiling could be a bit more rounded," Merry said. "So, what dismal thoughts deserve such a dull setting?"  
"Is it so hard to guess?" Frodo sighed. "I just want to go home, Merry," he said. "I want to go back to the Shire and finally have all of this behind me, at least for a time."  
Merry nodded, and sat down next to Frodo. "If it were that easy..." he said, tracing his cousin's line of thought like only he could. "Of course, we both know it will not be the same... but what is wrong with wishing?"  
"You know, it never occurred to me before this. You and Pippin... your parents... they did not know you left, did they?" Merry's head dropped.  
"They did, after a fashion. I told them we would be going with you for a trek. Pippin said the same, or something similar. We did not know at the time that the 'trek' would be go any farther than this valley... or I do not know what we would have said."  
"Or done," Frodo added.  
"No, that would still have been clear. I would have gone, even if I had seen this fate exactly. We all would have." He gave Frodo a considering look. "Wouldn't we?"  
"Yes. I suppose we would," Frodo answered. He looked back at Merry, who returned his astonished look with a smile. When had his little cousin learned so much? 


	9. Scene Nine Goodbye to You

Peony Brownlock stopped and looked out of the small round window, and cursed at the rain that was again pouring from the sky in sheets. Moments later, basket in hand, she was slamming out of the front door and hurriedly tearing her now soaking laundry from the lines. 'I should have known,' she thought to herself crossly. It had been raining for a week now, with short bursts of sunshine that always seemed to be, but never were, the end of the storm. 'I always trust those little bursts of sunshine.' The late summer rain made it so easy for her to ignore the scant tears coming down her cheeks and mingling there. She refused to cry over him anymore. He was gone, at least to her, and there was nothing to be done.  
Of course, the four heroes had been back for some time now, so it was not as if Frodo was really gone anymore. She could go to see him at any time. She would have gone to see him. Except that it had been him to say goodbye. That was what made the situation hurt so much more. Logically, if she could have gone to him at any time, he most certainly could have come to her. The fact that she had not seen him since his cryptic goodbye so long ago made it obvious enough what they had before was over.  
A loud squeak heralded someone's entrance through her rusty hinged garden gate. Peony looked over to the gate, and saw through the grey to a moment of clear blue sky. Frodo was there in front of her, looking wet, miserable, and vaguely apologetic. "Good afternoon," he said with the slightest nervous hesitation.  
"Afternoon," she replied, and Frodo could hear a myriad of emotion laced through her casual words. She looked at him, her expression blank, her eyes confused, angry, sad. "Ugh, we had best get inside." As she said it he remembered the rain that had been pelting him for the last few minutes, and noticed that her strawberry blonde hair was dark with rain, plastered in mussed curls to her head. "Did you walk all the way here? You must be more soaked than I am, if that is even possible, come let's get in," she said in one long string. Both of them hurried to the door, instinct prevailing over common sense as they threw their arms over their already soaked heads to block the rain.  
After dry towels and clothing had been found, and the fireplace had been restarted, the pair sat near, fidgeting, and trying to sneak a glance without the other noticing. Finally, Peony sighed, and broke the heavy silence. "So, why in the world did you pick such a horrid day to finally come back for a visit?" she asked, trying to lie with her voice and say that everything was okay. She had never been good at lies.  
"I... I have not gone out much at all recently. I apologize for not coming sooner. If I had realized sooner I might have..." He paused suddenly, looked over to catch her eyes, then turned his head back down. Why was this so hard?  
"If you had realized what?" she asked, her hollow voice reflecting no curiosity. "That you would only have to leave again?"  
His eyes snapped up to meet hers. "How did you –" She smiled sadly at him and lightly shook her head. Frodo sighed. "And here I debated all this time, how I was going to say goodbye."  
"I would ask why," she said, "but I imagine I would not understand your reason." Her voice shook with this statement. They had always been able to understand each other, better than anyone else the other had met. This distance burned. He felt it too, if she could still interpret the look in his eyes. They understood the gap, but had no means of crossing to the other side of it.  
"The whole world feels this way," he commented, looking out the window into the world blurring rain. With nothing to focus on, his eyes seemed to search through infinity, blind to the world. He all but whispered, "The distance is unbearable."  
Peony had no idea what to say to this. The look on his face, the tone of his voice, she did not know what to make of any of it, so she acted as if nothing had changed, and did what she would have done before. She rested her head lightly on his shoulder, and willed any good in herself into his well being. For her, it did not even take much thought. "So... leaving will help you?" she asked.  
"I do not think anything else will," he answered, voice edged with sorrow. She did not know if it was habit or thought that had his fingers twirling the long ends of her hair. Neither of the hobbits spoke for quite some time, both pondering the changes in their lives, in themselves, and in each other.  
"I didn't think this would end... well. I did not think anyone would understand."  
Peony turned to him, and they locked eyes. "Sometimes you're an absolute enigma to me, but sometimes, even when you seem so far away, I think I know you better than I know myself. I knew we would be here, and I knew you would go again. I suppose I will not see you again before you leave?" The question was pointless, as they both knew the answer.  
Frodo looked out the window again, and sighed. "If I don't leave now I will not make it home until far too late. Good bye."  
"Wait, it's still raining. At least stay until it stops." Her deep brown eyes pleaded with him, as she held out her hand. "Please, after all the rain you owe me one more sunny sky."  
Frodo seemed ready to argue, but eventually smiled and took her hand. "Yes, I suppose I do." 


	10. Scene Ten The Ever Present Dark

* A/N: Thank you so so much to everyone who read/reviewed/helped me out with this, I hope this first effort of mine (insane amounts of downtime aside) was enjoyable ^_^ *  
  
Frodo rubbed his eyes with one hand, while setting up another candle with the other. His stomach roared, but he ignored it. It was late, and he hadn't left his study all day. The red leather bound book lie silently on the table in front of him; he reached out to it, laying his fingertips against the smooth cover gently. There it was, finished at last. He had gone over it a countless number of times, trying to find that one out of place word, that one smudge of ink that needed fixing, but there were none. What did he do now that he had completed his own life story? It had tethered him to this world for a year and a half now, the only excuse he had to stay.  
'So now the time has come. It has been so little time... or was it too long?' All the events of the last year he had either half heartedly attended, or missed entirely, came to mind. It was as if he had spent that last year in a glass room, looking out at the world, but unable to experience it. He could see everything, and remember when he felt those emotions: love, joy, happiness. Those emotions lay on the other side, however, an arranged display of the past that seemed futile after the harsher lessons he had learned, a blanket that kept the world's monsters from those who refused to see them. It seemed that once the blanket was ripped away, it could not be a comfort anymore. The monsters were real, and Frodo could not see past them.  
His friends had noticed, surely. The knowing looks they gave him were evidence of that. They had probably known something was going wrong with him before he did himself, yet again. For all the times it had happened, he should have learned that lesson: to trust the judgment of those close to him. Just as he looked out of his glass cage to view the world around him, they could look in, and know better than he what emotions were storming within, waiting patiently for him to notice them and give them a name, give them a face; waiting for him to drop his control of them.  
  
He had finally lost that control, and been consumed by a feeling in the pit of his stomach, that said if he were to turn around nothing would be the same. The world he knew would melt away and become a nightmarish reminder of the past, a horrible promise of future pain. He rarely left the confines of his study; the fear of his home being so foreign was too much of a deterrent. If anyone knew, if he had the nerve to tell them, they would not hold him back from leaving. No one could live with the thought that their world was just a façade covering some hell that no amount of rationalization could destroy. It was the worst at night. When he would lie in his bed, trying to sleep, and his own words would chase in circles through his head again and again. "... I do not choose now to do what I came to do..." (Return of the King, p. 924 paperback). The knowledge that for a time the small voice that spoke absurdities in the back of his mind, the one that had then screamed for him to stop, was his own, and that he didn't care. The screaming of his sanity as he gave it away for something he knew was a lie. And still now the feeling that it may still be there, that corruption in his mind. Any out of place thought, any unfounded doubt, was cause for alarm. It was almost impossible to know which was worse, hearing horrors in his head from another source, and knowing the power it wielded, or hearing that same horror, with its same message, and knowing there was no one in his head but himself. No one could face that night after night.  
He sighed again, and sank back into the chair behind him. He needed to stop lingering on this, and, honestly, now that this burning need to commit his experience to paper had greyed to ash, he had no clue what to do with himself. He was not tired, would probably be awake for a few hours at least, and was reluctant to leave the study, for fear of feeling out of place in his own home. His hand went by habit to the quill on the table, and he turned it over again and again in his hand, the soft lower portion of feather brushing the hollow where his missing finger should have been. He shuddered and dropped the pen to the desk, willing the feeling of the soft feather against the stump of his finger to stop. He did not need the reminder.  
A touch of cool air from the partially open window stole his attention. From where he was sitting, Frodo could just barely make out the gentle movements of the new trees. They were beautiful, of course, but seemed unable to replace their predecessors' rightness. 'Years from now they will,' he thought, 'if they do not surpass them. But I will not see it.' In a way he was glad. The newness of so much of the Shire made it foreign, another unknown stop on a long adventure. In a way, that was right. It took living here again to understand that it wasn't the same, and neither was he. He had somehow split, taken a different road from everything and everyone he once knew, and he could not find his way back. His thoughts went back to the beginning of all this, of his dreams of the Sea, and wondered if there had ever been another path for him at all. No more of the journey was his to tell. He let the last words dry fully, closed up the book, and got up to begin packing. 


End file.
